


When You Want to Let It Go

by waldorph



Series: Goodnight, Demon Slayer [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-26
Updated: 2008-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should probably bother him more than it does.  The whole wings thing.  And the lack of personal space</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Want to Let It Go

_"An angel,"_ Bobby snorts over the phone.

"Yep," Dean sighs into the phone, squinting into the rearview mirror.

_"He with you now?"_

Dean glances over at Castiel, who is frowning at the radio, which keeps going schizophrenic. Dean can't get him to leave it alone, and figures that maybe he's like Sammy and will wear himself out. As long as there are no freakin' iPod jacks. Cause that was just fucked up.

"Yeah."

Bobby's quiet and skeptical. Dean huffs out a sigh, looking in his side mirror and then out the rearview again before peering down the dark road.

"Bobby."

_"I hope to hell you know what you're doin', boy."_ Which is as much permission or blessing as Dean's gonna get. 'Course, Bobby did go to the abandoned barn with him and didn't get too pissed when Dean hauled ass away in the opposite direction with the guy they hadn't been able to kill in tow. So maybe Bobby figures on the scale of crazy, Dean is at least sliding down to about an eight.

"Would you knock that off?" Dean demands, gruffer than he meant to be, but this is his _baby_ and he does not discriminate between demons, angels or iPods when it comes to his baby.

_"What?"_ Bobby sounds a little surprised, and Dean says,

"Bobby, I gotta go. I'll call you when we settle."

Castiel blinks at him as Dean shuts the heat off.

"It's September."

Castiel tilts his head. The radio hisses.

"We don't need heat," Dean clarifies (not anymore—now he's toasty warm, but that's beside the point). "Dude. Make the radio work."

Castiel turns and looks out the window, but "Don't Fear the Reaper" blasts from the speakers. Dean grins involuntarily, then glances to the side. Castiel is staring in apparent fascination out the window.

Dean can't tell if he seems pleased himself or not.

The Impala purrs comfortingly around him.

*

"Dean, where've you been?" Sam demands when they come in, staring at Castiel for a second before returning his glare to Dean, who huffs a sigh and tosses his coat on the free bed. "Last time I checked it didn't take twelve hours to get a beer with Bobby. It's almost noon, Dean. Your phone stop working?"

"Sam—" Dean starts warningly, keeping an eye on Castiel but distracted by Sam's shifting his weight back and forth, pursing his lips and crossing his arms over his chest. Dean may have been gone for four months but he would know that little set up anywhere.

"Where is Bobby?" Sam's voice is reaching "serious bitch" level. "And who is that?"

"Back home. Oh, I gotta call him. You—don't touch a damn thing," he warns, pointing at Castiel, who is getting dangerously close to the window. Castiel turns to Dean, slides his hands in his pockets, and nods once.

"Who _is_ that?" Sam demands. Dean's forgotten _how_ much Sam nags. He holds onto shit like a terrier with a rat, and Dean's in no mood to be shaken.

"Angel," he bites off, and then Bobby picks up. " Yeah, Bobby."

_"I take it this means you're home safe." _

"Yeah. Talk to Sammy," he says, shoving the phone at Sam and grabbing Castiel's arm. TV is fuzzing, it's on Dean's last nerve.

"Why are there mirrors on the ceilings?" he inquires seriously, peering up at their strangely distorted reflections.

Dean…does not have the energy. "So that when you talk to me you're guaranteed to hit me with shards. Thanks for that, by the way."

Castiel looks at him, unnervingly guileless. "I did not mean to harm you. I did not realize the effect I had upon you." He reaches up and wipes his thumb under Dean's ear, and they both look at the flakes of blood on his thumb.

Dean doesn't say, "I know" because that'd be too quick—that's…he's not even sure he's buying what Castiel is selling, except that he _is_. He doesn't seem to be able to help it.

Doesn't mean the angel has to know that.

Castiel is examining his coat, which makes Dean think.

"Sam!" Dean calls, making a decision and turning, grabbing the keys. "Give me the card."

Sam looks up from where he's frowning at the street below, still talking to Bobby. He hands Dean his wallet.

"What—"

"Dude, these are rank and your clothes will not fit me. And _he_…looks like an extra in a Tarantino flick. Kill Bill 3, the low-budget, extra-gory sequel. Triquel? Third?"

Sam stares at him.

Castiel tilts his head and pulls out his coat to observe it.

"Unless you can..you know, heal it with the power of faith?" Dean asks him, grabbing Sam's coat from the couch and throwing it to the other man.

It falls on the floor.

"Dude. Catch. Very simple."

Castiel shrugs out of the trench coat, picks up Sam's and shrugs it on. It's…well. Doesn't exactly fit. More like it hangs off his scrawny ass. Dean rolls his eyes.

Sam stares at him. "Dean."

"We need nourishment," Castiel observes.

"We are hittin' the mall."

"Dean," Sam repeats.

"The mall," Castiel repeats.

"Hell on earth," Dean promises, grabbing Castiel's arm and ushering out the room. "Back in an hour, Sammy!"

*

"So what's he think about all this, anyway?" he asks from inside the fitting room.

"He doesn't have an opinion," Castiel replies from the other side, calm and serene, like they've been having this conversation for hours and he doesn't need to ask Dean who he's talking about.

Kind of freakish. But not demonic.

"Oh, that's rich. Makes you different how?"

"You misunderstand. He was a devout man—"

"Yeah, this all sounds familiar," he snorts, coming out to look at his reflection. He used to enjoy that—before the mirrors fell on him and every time he looked in one he got flashes of—things he'd rather not think about. But he seems okay now. And his ass really is fantastic.

"He had no family, only his faith. He has been rewarded."

The girl at the counter eyes him approvingly. Oh, it is good to be undead. Wait—not dead. Undead would _not_ be good. Anyway, it is good to be Dean and alive (again).

"Wait—rewarded _how_?" he demands suspiciously, looking at Castiel's reflection in the mirror.

"He is with the Lord his God."

Dean stills, because…he turns and looks at him dead in the eye. "He's dead."

"He has passed on."

"You're in a _corpse_?" Dean hisses, because this just went from "mildly acceptable" to "wrong, utterly and completely fucked up".

Castiel stands, right in Dean's space and Dean's ready to flip, maybe wants to punch him and maybe that's why he didn't _bleed_ when Dean stabbed him with the Knife, sonova_bitch_—

"I possess a beating heart," he says quietly, taking Dean's hand and placing it on his chest (newly covered in a crisp white button down—Dean talked him out of the tie, though). "I am just as alive as you."

And that shouldn't stagger Dean, but it _does_, because he was dead, dead and rotting, burning in hell. And Sammy didn't come—couldn't—but this…whatever he is (angel), Castiel came for Dean. Dean has the marks to prove it, both of them, and

"What do you want from me?" he finds himself demanding raggedly, because now Dean owes this man his _life_ and he has to want something—there's always something, nobody gets anything for free especially not their _lives_.

The smile that curves the other man's lips is gentle, fond, affectionate—expressions that Dean has seen, but never (_never_) directed at him, and it shouldn't floor him, but it does. Castiel leans forward, peering into Dean's eyes and touches his cheek.

"Nothing you are unwilling to give."

It takes Dean a minute to realize that they're too close, that his hand is fisted in Castiel's shirt over his heart and one of Castiel's hands is on his cheek.

"That doesn't answer my question," he manages, stepping back and flexing his hands a couple of times by his sides.

"Yes, it does." He takes the credit card from Dean's jacket pocket. "You should purchase those," he says.

The girl at the register lets him wear what he's got on out of the store, grinning at them both like she knows something.

"Have fun, boys," she remarks as they leave, and then laughs to herself.

"Never mind," Dean says before Castiel can look up inquisitively.

It doesn't occur to him to wonder at the fact that he knows that he will.

*

Sam doesn't like Castiel.

Dean figures it's that Sam doesn't buy the angel angle any more than Bobby does, and Dean can't explain why he…well. He doesn't _buy_ it, but he…

Just doesn't think about it. It should probably bother him more than it does. The whole wings thing. And the lack of personal space. (And the fact that he does buy it, completely. Except not that he'll ever, ever admit.)

"I swear he's even more of a bitch now," Dean mutters, throwing his bag across the room and salting the doors and windows before shucking off his shirt with a frustrated exhale.

"Some people deal with grief in different ways," Castiel replies, moving across the room silently. The TV goes insane, but Dean's gotten good at ignoring it. At least the radio always plays awesome tunes.

"He's grieving 'cause I'm back? That's nice," Dean snorts, looking in the mirror to see just how tired he looks.

Things go black and red and terrifying, flickering and there's screaming and hands and pain, so much—it's his fault, it's all his fault, he couldn't —he can't—

"Easy, easy, I have you. Breathe, Dean, breathe."

He's on the bed when he jerks out of it, no memory of how he got there and his heart is about to beat out of his fucking chest.

"That one—that lasted—" he gasps, unable to articulate but—damn it, he thought his subconscious had buried all of that, and if it keeps popping up—shit, he's gonna be useless. Dad'd told him stories about guys with PTSD, who just gibbered and died 'cause they couldn't get their shit together, too lost in their own trauma to fire back. And Dean doesn't know what he is if he can't hunt—he can't just sit on the sidelines, he's back, he has to be in the game he can't just sit it out and if this keeps happening—

"I have you. No harm will come to you, you are safe. I have you."

Dean looks up at him, sitting over him, his left hand on Dean's right biceps right over the mark and it should hurt but it just…it calms him down like he's been hit with a tranq or something. Not fuzzy, just able to breathe, to calm down—like the closeness somehow gives Dean space to breathe, which doesn't make sense, except that it does.

"I have you," Castiel repeats and it's a promise or benediction or statement of irrevocable fact but it's not a threat.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and watches as Castiel leans down, right hand coming up to cup Dean's cheek and tilt his face up to meet the angel's lips, and Dean can't help it. Melts into the uncomfortable bed and forgets to worry about where Sammy is, what Sammy might think, just wants…

This.

This right here, offered willing and freely without strings by someone who won't _leave_, and Dean…is just not strong enough to turn that down or away.

He slides his hands up, unbuttoning the shirt they bought only a week or so ago (days—he's only been back _days_), and pushing it off smooth shoulders, Castiel moving quickly to lay it on the bed before his hands come back to Dean, like it's as important to him to be touching Dean as it is to Dean to be touched.

He can't figure out what Castiel tastes like, and it's driving him nuts. He licks in, curving a hand at the nape of the other man's neck to pull him closer, tongues sliding together hotly. Like burgers or cake or—pie, apple pie, with vanilla bean ice cream…

"Wait—" Dean whispers, not knowing why, not _meaning it_ as Castiel licks down his neck, hands working Dean's belt.

Castiel pauses, pulls back, hands stilling right after they slid down under his waistband.

"Don't listen to me!" Dean pants, because the hand is right there, just, if he shifts his hips up—

"I will always listen to you," the angel replies seriously, and Dean groans and throws his arm over his eyes. He tells himself that he's just sexually frustrated, and not overwhelmed for another reason. His fly gets unzipped and his boxers shoved down under his balls and he _absolutely_ does not thrust helplessly.

"Wait—wait, lube, condoms—" he says, because Christ, doesn't this guy know about — a cool, slick finger slips in and he bucks. He doesn't even want to know, doesn't ask, and oh, _fuck_. It's like he can read Dean's body like a book, knows just how to crook his finger, slide another in and Dean's suddenly jerking up and grinding down on the hand and shaking, overwhelmed. "_F-fuck_," he stutters, biting his lower lip and letting it slide out, trying for the control that is far out of his grasp (and maybe was never there). "Oh _fuck_."

Castiel leans up, kisses his abused lower lip, a third finger sliding in and scissoring, twisting as he sucks on Dean's lower lip, grazing Dean's prostate once, twice, and Dean's panting hard and maybe whining.

Dean grabs him by the ears, desperate for a kiss, desperate for more, for—

Fingers slide out leaving Dean painfully empty and it's too—he can't handle it, he can't deal with being this empty, can't—

Hips grind down on his as Castiel shifts over him and Dean's cock twitches against the roughness of the other man's jeans, trapped and hard (Dean can't remember ever being _this_ hard). "Please," he gasps. "Please, please, please, please—"

"Shh. I have you."

Castiel pulls away and Dean grabs for his shoulders instinctively (desperately).

"I will not leave you." He stands up, slips his new jeans off his hips and—

"Oh, _fuck_," Dean groans, because no boxers. Just his cock, hard and red and leaking against his belly and Dean stares because—yeah, he's _beautiful_. And that should be embarrassing, but it's such a simple truth that Dean just reaches out, and Castiel smiles from under heavily-lidded eyes and leans over, pulling Dean's jeans and boxers down and off and then sliding back up his body. He presses a kiss to Dean's sternum, to the hollow of his throat, to the underside of his chin. Dean's hands clutch at the sheets convulsively (Jesus, he's like a virgin at the prom, this is embarrassing. Or it would be, if he cared).

He's not usually this passive.

He just wants it noted.

"Please," he whispers into Castiel's mouth, drawing his legs up, letting them fall apart and arching his back. He reaches down, takes Castiel's cock and helps him slide in, gasping as Castiel rocks into him, and Dean is surrounded and filled. Castiel is hot and heavy between his thighs and Dean will feel this in the morning, but he's distracted because every thrust says,_ mine, safe, mine, safe, mine, safe_ and Dean opens his eyes, meets Castiel's strangely serious, intense eyes and tries to say with his eyes and body, _yes, yes, yes._


End file.
